The top of the hill presented a flat surface of a city half-block square. At no distant time a thatched hut had stood there. It was of the remains of this that Chang and Rowgowskii had built the fire.
While he sipped a cup of water which Chang brought to him, Lavelle took stock of all these things. Not one thought of solace could he draw from the bitter, hopeless scheme which unfolded itself to his gaze. By the time the non-arrival of the Cambodia was read into disaster and a searching ship sent into these seas the end would have long since come to this island. Well he realized the emptiness of this stretch of ocean and the one chance in ten thousand which might bring a stray merchantman or trader stumbling upon them. Well he realized the slight tenure of the crust of earth which held him. Judging from its assumed position it had drifted a phenomenal distance for that latitude. He believed it must have been ripped away from one of the islands of the Hawaiian group. That it had survived so long seemed to him miraculous and but emphasized the imminence of its early dissolution. What had already happened since the landing confirmed in his mind that the next storm would be the mother of the island's oblivion and all it held.
Floating islands are uncommon in any but the most placid waters. Yet in the phenomena of the sea's scheme of things they are common occurrences. The charts of all big waters are dotted with their records. Shipmasters come to port reporting an island where one was never before and where it would seem against all reason that one should be. Still man imbued with the unconquerable mystery of the sea writes this report on his charts for all times. First he writes it as a fact, justifying its assumption as such. According to its reported size, ships go searching for it—men-o'-war, leisurely merchantmen, vagrant traders. No island is found. Only sea is there. But man does not trust the deep; he never will. He does not erase his record. He marks it "P.D."—position doubtful. Years pass without further report of an island in this locality. Then he goes as far as he dares. He writes on his charts "E.D."—meaning "Existence doubtful."
How many a well-found ship, sailing in a sea charted clear and deep, has blundered into islands like the one which held the Cambodia castaways and suddenly come unto her last port? No man may tell. Seldom, however, do ocean traffickers meet with these waif lands north or south of the twentieth parallels.
With never a dream that this could be one—here in the thirties—though the absence of reefs and the raw and broken aspect of the island shore had given him pause, Lavelle had trapped himself. He had captained her, for whose salvation he would gladly lay down his life, into a prison to which death held the key.
It was with this bitter, self-blaming thought, and tortured by it, that he turned away from the sea to behold the gold woman coming toward him with a wistful smile. He ran to meet her and his soul cried out at the denial of its impulse to fold her to his heart and soothe her hurts.
CHAPTER XV
Three days of life-renewing, hope-burgeoning weather had followed that silent dawn—days of placid seas and gentle breezes; and nights alight with stars and a growing moon. The island had been motionless. It might have been one of the Blessed Isles in a world where life was everlasting.
Isle of Hope Emily had christened the bit of floating earth, nor could she have told why optimism reigned in her heart and soul. She was unaware that she was reflecting only what the manner of Paul Lavelle gave forth. His every act and word was a reassurance of faith and the motif of her ever-increasing wonder of him.